


gods require blood

by sinnabar (fishtank)



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5562046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishtank/pseuds/sinnabar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There’s something undeniably intimate about marking another person’s flesh, something that goes beyond anger and violence. It’s an act of possession, of staking a claim.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	gods require blood

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post 10x04, "Charlie Work". Warnings for Dennis Reynolds's headspace, unhealthy relationship dynamics, religious kink, mention of physical violence and previous sexual encounters of dubious consent. You know, all the usual stuff that goes hand in hand with this show.

“Does it hurt?” Dennis asks.

Mac squints at him, still bleary-eyed and tousle-headed from where he’d been asleep until Dennis came crashing in five minutes ago. The marks stand out on his cheek, livid and red despite the dim light in Dee’s living room.

Dennis can’t stop staring at them, a primal thrill that feels dangerously close to arousal stirring in his gut at the evidence of what he did, the four thin lines of blood standing in sharp relief against Mac’s skin.

It’s the first time in weeks he’s felt something other than rage or cold emptiness. He’s willing to see where it leads.

“You scratched my goddamn face, dude. Of course it fucking hurts.”

“Sorry,” Dennis says, though he doesn’t particularly mean it. He’s pretty sure he’s never felt genuinely sorry about anything in his life, but he needs to get rid of that wary look in Mac’s eyes, and an apology seems like a good place to start. Mac’s entire body is tense, leaning away from Dennis on the narrow mattress like he’s expecting to be attacked again, and that doesn’t suit Dennis’s purposes right now.

“Yeah, well, just don’t do it again. What the hell is with you lately, anyway?”

Mac’s tone is still accusatory, but the nervous energy is leaving him already, his stance becoming less defensive. Just as Dennis knew it would.

He’s compiled extensive psychological files on all the members of the gang over the years, but Mac’s buttons have always been the easiest to push. He’s so desperate for approval (from his father, from God, from Dennis) that it only takes one half-hearted act of kindness for him to forgive any transgression. No matter how insincere that act may be.

(Mac will forgive him. Mac always forgives him.)

Transfixed, Dennis allows himself to reach out, trace the scratches on Mac’s face. The torn skin feels inflamed, hot to his touch, the drag of stubble rough beneath the pads of his fingers, and he lets the sensations ground him, tether him to the here and now.

There’s something undeniably intimate, he thinks, about marking another person’s flesh, something that goes beyond anger and violence. It’s an act of possession, of staking a claim. _I own you. I control you._

(Dennis is a golden God, and Mac is his best creation.)

“Uh, what are you doing?”

Mac sounds tense again, his voice cracking at the end of his question, but he isn’t moving away or spouting bullshit protestations about his sexuality. Is, in fact, leaning ever-so-slightly into Dennis’s touch, and this is going to be even easier than Dennis thought it would be.

“Shhh,” he croons in his most seductive voice, the one he’s used to sweet-talk countless women into his bed. “Let me make it up to you.”

Much as he’s loath to admit it, Dennis hasn’t had much luck with the ladies recently, the embarrassment of the whole five-star fiasco still fresh in his mind. But this, maybe this is exactly what he needs to get out of his funk and back in control. He still has all the power here, and it feels good; better than good, like he’s getting back to his old self again.

“And how are you gonna do that, exactly?”

By way of an answer, Dennis slides his hand around to the back of Mac’s neck, pulls him roughly forward until their lips meet. It’s awkward and ungainly, the angle entirely wrong; Mac is stiff and unresponsive against him for long, painful seconds as Dennis tries patiently to coax a reaction from him. He’s sure he’s going to get knocked on his ass any moment, that Mac will shove him away and storm off as soon as his internalized _whatever_ raises its head and he remembers himself – but then Mac shudders and yields, melting into the insistent pressure of Dennis’s lips with a soft groan that tastes like surrender.

Dennis smirks his victory into the shape of the kiss.

It’s always been an ego stroke, the way Mac looks at him when he thinks Dennis isn’t paying attention. He’s been aware of the way Mac feels about him for a while now – probably even moreso than the man himself, given his talent for self-delusion – had quietly taken note and put the information away in Mac’s file should he ever need to exploit it. So he’s always been fairly sure he could have this, but the confirmation excites him in a way that the girls in his sex tapes haven’t been able to for a long time, bringing something dead in him back to life. It’s the thrill of the unknown, of conquering uncharted territory, and he’s been going through the motions for so long that he almost didn’t recognize it.

The faint sound of movement from Dee’s bedroom breaks the quiet, making Dennis keenly aware of their current living situation. In many ways, this would be easier if they still had their own apartment, but here Mac has nowhere to run to, no way to avoid Dennis when they’re sharing the same sleeping space. Besides, even though Dennis knows from long experience that his sister sleeps like the dead, the possibility of getting caught in the act adds another layer to his excitement, the extra element of risk and danger making the whole affair seem even more illicit than seducing his closeted best friend would be under normal circumstances.

Unfortunately, it seems to have the opposite effect on Mac, who jerks away from him guiltily, eyes darting to the closed bedroom door like he’s expecting Dee to come bursting out with a camera any second. Dennis can’t tell if the pink flush spreading across his cheeks is from shame or desire or some combination of the two, but whichever it is makes his scratched up face seem even more appealing.

“Dennis, I don’t know if this is… I mean, I’m not – I can’t –"

Dennis silences the muttered protests with a finger pressed to Mac’s lips, not wanting to hear how any of those sentences end. Inwardly he rolls his eyes, wondering who Mac even thinks he’s kidding these days, but when he speaks he makes sure he does so in the same calm, soothing voice he used earlier, as though Mac is a nervous horse that might bolt at the slightest provocation.

“Stop thinking so much. Let me take care of you.”

He drags his finger across Mac’s bottom lip, pushing in just slightly, getting it damp with saliva. It’s more than a bit suggestive, and Mac’s eyes go hazy, whatever other half-hearted objections he had stored up dying in his throat before he can utter them.

“Fuck, Den,” he breathes, and it’s all the invitation Dennis needs. The second kiss is rougher, more demanding than the first now that he’s sure he won’t be refused; Mac gives back more this time too, tugging on Dennis’s hair and moaning around his tongue, returning the kiss without much finesse but plenty of enthusiasm.

It’s perfect. It’s not enough. The restlessness that’s followed Dennis for weeks now is still there, gnawing at the edge of his senses, and he needs more.

He bites down lightly on Mac’s lip, grazes the soft swell of flesh with his teeth. Not enough. He wants to break skin, to spill blood again. He remembers the rush of before, when that furious energy inside of him had overflowed and he’d clawed Mac’s face up with his nails. He’d felt powerful, in that moment. He wants to feel it again.

He settles for sucking a bruise into Mac’s throat, high enough that it’ll show above the collars of his stupid sleeveless shirts.

(At the bar tomorrow, Dee and Charlie will notice and needle him about it, and Mac will blush and stutter and spin a line of bullshit about how he totally got lucky with some chick, even though the whole gang knows Mac hasn’t been interested in picking up girls for years now.)

Dennis crowds closer, pushing at Mac’s shoulders until he’s flat on his back, Dennis’s weight bearing down on him. They’re about evenly matched in terms of strength, but Mac has more body mass and could probably throw Dennis off if he really wanted to, or at least put up a hell of a fight. The fact that he doesn’t, that he just lets Dennis manhandle him, only adds to the rush of power Dennis is riding on. He feels dizzy with it, like he’s floating outside of his body somewhere up near the ceiling, a better high than most of the drugs he’s experimented with have ever given him.

He should have done this years ago.

He can feel Mac’s erection against his thigh when he grinds down, and he pulls back from the kiss to look at the other man, considering. Mac turns his face away, still breathing hard; the scratches catch Dennis’s eye again, and he feels a sharp spike of irritation at this small act of defiance.

“Look at me,” he commands, just like he had done earlier in the bar; only this time the words are soft instead of harsh, and this time Mac obeys him instantly, wide brown eyes finding Dennis’s face.

( _Enraptured._ That’s the word Dennis would use to describe Mac’s expression right then. He wears submission well.)

“Good boy,” Dennis murmurs. He runs his knuckles lightly over Mac’s dick, feeling the shape and heat of him through the thin material of his sweats. Mac whines and arches into the touch, and the responsiveness is incredibly satisfying to see but it’s still not what Dennis is looking for.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, repeating the same motion of his hand, just enough friction to tease without offering any relief. “Nothing happens unless you ask for it.”

With anyone else he wouldn’t bother, would take their silence as consent and forge ahead until he’d gotten what he needed, but with Mac it’s different. With Mac the whole endeavor will be pointless if he doesn’t offer himself up as a willing tribute, so that there can be no denying afterwards that this is what he wanted all along.

Dennis is going to shatter all of Mac’s self-righteous convictions, drag him away from his God and lead him into temptation and sin, and he’s going to make Mac beg him for it.

“I want it,” Mac says, surprisingly sure despite the slight tremor in his voice. “Fuck, Dennis, please –“

Good enough. Dennis shoves his hand unceremoniously inside the front of Mac’s pants, gripping his cock and jerking him off with firm, confident strokes. He’s peripherally aware of his own arousal, his dick straining uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans, but it doesn’t seem important right now. Dennis has always been good at transcending the needs of his body when it suits him, and he focuses all of his energy into the task at hand.

Mac says “God,” and “Dennis,” and the two words blur together in Dennis’s mind until they become one, indistinguishable. He wants to be the only deity Mac prays to from now on.

(Dennis is a golden God, but what’s a god without somebody to worship at his feet?)

It’s over so quickly that it would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so immensely gratifying. Mac comes with a sound that’s almost a sob, chanting Dennis’s name like it’s something holy, something sacred.

It’s enough to bring Dennis’s own desire roaring into focus for the first time and he fumbles with the fastening of his jeans, needing to get off and get off _now._ He’s mildly surprised when Mac knocks his hand out of the way to complete the task himself, yanking the zipper down with uncoordinated fingers. Mac tugs at his cock clumsily; no technique whatsoever, not that Dennis expected anything more. It doesn’t matter. He’s teetering on the edge already, and it only takes about a dozen strokes before he’s spilling all over Mac’s hand and belly, a twisted form of baptism.

Mac grins at him afterwards, dopey and sated and, God help him, almost kind of sweet, and it throws Dennis off his game because it’s not at all what he expected. He’d always figured that Mac would freak out if they ever actually did this, that there would be yelling and hysterics and name-calling, but now they’re so far off the script he had prepared in his head that he’s not at all sure what his response should be.

“You okay, bro?” Mac asks, picking up on Dennis’s confusion, and it’s all wrong because this is Dennis’s show, he’s the one in control here. Mac isn’t supposed to be so calm while Dennis is struggling to keep up.

(Sometimes he thinks about how Mac peels his apples for him so he won’t get sick, how Mac checks in with him every hour when they’re not together. Mac nags at him to eat breakfast and makes sure he gets to bed when he’s too wasted to do it himself; Mac takes care of him when everybody else in his life has long since stopped putting up with his shit, and maybe that’s a kind of worship in his own right.)

“I needed that,” Dennis admits, and it’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Mac slurs drowsily, breath already slowing and evening out, and it fucking figures that he’d be the type to fall asleep right after sex.

Any second now, Dennis will get up, shuffle off to Dee’s bathroom to clean himself off and go to sleep in his hammock when he returns so his sister doesn’t suspect anything in the morning. In the meantime, though, Mac makes for a surprisingly comfy pillow, and it’s tempting to stay where he is for just a little while longer.

In time, Dennis knows, he’ll tire of this the same way he inevitably grows bored of everything that was once novel and exciting. In his experience, nothing satisfies his hunger for long, the thing inside of him that constantly craves stimulation demanding ever more and newer and riskier experiences to keep it fed.

But here, in this moment, the vast empty hole in his gut feels smaller – not quite filled, but less of a gaping wound than usual. The white noise in his head has quietened, drowned out by the steady, rhythmic thumping of Mac’s heartbeat beneath his ear.

It’s the closest Dennis has felt to peace in months. For now, it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I just got done watching this show for the first time and I adore everything about it, but especially these two codependent losers. I'm planning to contribute more fic in the near future, but I hope you enjoyed this first offering to the fandom.
> 
> Title is from "Their Eyes Were Watching God" by Zora Neale Hurston.


End file.
